


Not A Stranger To The Dark

by Fangirlshrewt97



Series: Geralt Whump Week 2020 Fills [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Episode: s01e01 The End's Beginning, Gen, Geralt Whump Week, Geralt Whump Week Day 1, Introspection, Ostracism, Self-Hatred, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24491296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlshrewt97/pseuds/Fangirlshrewt97
Summary: Basically a short outlook of what I think happened to Geralt after he left Blaviken at the end of the first episode.Excerpt: The life of a Witcher was one of darkness, of monsters, of chaos and death and fighting to survive. It was a life of rejection from the very people you were charged to protect, of getting cursed at, threatened.It was of getting denied rooms in inns during winters, chased from brothels for fear that you would kill one of their girls.Geralt Whump Week Submission, Day 1 Prompt: Ostracism
Series: Geralt Whump Week 2020 Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812871
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Not A Stranger To The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> This was written in like an hour, so I apologize if something doesn't flow properly. None of the characters belong to me, I am just borrowing them.  
> @LoverOfMidnight, Thanks for letting me know about Geralt Whump Week! I hope you like the story.  
> I love reading your reactions and thoughts on my stories, so please share them with me!
> 
> Thank you
> 
> Fangirlshrewt97

The life of a Witcher was one of darkness, of monsters, of chaos and death and fighting to survive. It was a life of rejection from the very people you were charged to protect, of getting cursed at, threatened.

It was of getting denied rooms in inns during winters, chased from brothels for fear that you would kill one of their girls.

It was a life where fear was the most common stink, pouring out of the vein of almost every human. Hate stunk even worse though. Of those that were brave enough not to be scared of him, none were willing to spare a kind touch or polite conversation.

Geralt got back to Roach and spurred her into a sprint, wanting to put as much distance as he could between himself and Blaviken.

The pair rode for nearly hours before the mare finally exhausted herself. Geralt pulled her to a hidden clearing in the woods and tied her to a tree.

“Thank you Roach. I didn’t want to run you so hard, I just couldn’t be there anymore.” Geralt whispered to his horse as he stroked her mane.

Roach neighed, headbutting his chest.

“You are too good for me.”

Roach snorted.

“Rest for now, you were excellent today. I am going to go get us some water.”

Saying so, Geralt moved away, collecting his empty water skein along the way and a spare cloth.

As Geralt walked through the trees towards the sound of the water, Geralt could not help but think of the events that had just occurred.

He was a Witcher, made and proud. He was good at what he did. He liked to think he provided safety and allowed others to sleep better at night.

And yet.

He recalled the face of the girl he had saved when he was a brand new Witcher.

He recalled the face of the old man he pulled out of the way of the hungry wyvren.

He recalled too many crowds of villagers and citizens who pressed back into the walls of their houses and closed the doors, as if his evil would spread into their homes.

Men, women, children, old hags, and cursing sailors, even the damn cats and dogs.All afraid. All hating him.

Geralt filled his water skein and gulped the whole thing down, and refilled it again. He set it aside. There was still an hour of daylight left, so Geralt stripped himself down to his small clothes and placed them on the rock before wading into the cool river. His medallion remained still in his chest, assuring him that he was not going to be dragged down to the bottom of the river by a surprise monster.

The water was cold against his skin, allowing himself to focus on the ice-fire it lit across his skin as he submerged himself underwater.

He closed his eyes and saw pale skin soaked with blood.

He gasped and broke through the surface, feet nearly slipping on the smooth rocks in the riverbed.

Panting, he shook his head, and ducked down again.

Eyes of chestnut brown flashed behind hid eyelids, at once alive with heat and desire, and dead and blank.

He once again scrambled to the surface, feeling as though he was drowning. He saw until he was at the river’s edge, holding onto the rock he had thrown his clothing over.

“Fuck.”

Scrubbing one hand hard across his face, Geralt barely winced as he jostled bruises across his body.

He took his clothes and dunked them in the water, rubbing them until most of the stains were out. He then laid them out on the rock.

He grabbed the cloth he had brought along and soaked it in the river before hauling himself onto the rock, sitting on his still wet tunic.

Methodically, he cleaned every inch of himself, washing himself raw. He could still feel the sticky blood soiling his hands. The scent would be stuck on him for days, haunting him in his every waking hour. As if his mind couldn’t do so all on its own. And for far longer too.

He cleaned and washed and rubbed until his arms felt heavier than the rock he was sitting on.

He dropped the cloth on the ground, he would have to burn it, too much grime and gore to make it usable again.

Bringing his knees together, Geralt wrapped his arms around them and leaned his head back, arching his back and relishing the pain that accompanied the stretch. When he opened his eyes, the sky was pitch black, the moon a silver sun lighting up the woods, making every shadow longer, every branch a hiding place for danger.

Shaking himself off, Geralt got up from the rock, gathering his somewhat dry pants and tugging them up before shoving his thankfully dry feet into his boots. He wrapped the tunic around his shoulders, but did not put it on. Gathering the waterskein and dirty cloth, he made his way back to the clearing.

Once back at the campsite, he found a clean tunic to change into, and pulled out Roach’s meal. He grabbed some of his own food, and ate it cold, too tired to bother with lighting a fire.

Still feeling too restless to sleep, Geralt took out his sword cleaning kit and pulled out his steel sword. His stomach nearly heaved his recently downed dinner when the stench of blood overpowered the air, making even Roach snuffle in disgust.

“Sorry Roach.” Geralt apologized before settling against a nearby trunk. He first used the soiled cloth to thoroughly remove as much of the blood as he could. He then poured oil and rubbed it into every nook and notch of the metal before scrubbing it down again with the cloth he kept specifically for wiping down the sword.

Once the sword was gleaming again, he put away the kit and restored the sword to its scabbard. And then took it out again when he realized he would not be able to sleep despite the bone deep exhaustion. And certainly not do something as impossible as clearing his head despite how much he ached for it.

Removing a whetstone, Geralt settled back against the trunk and positioned his sword over his knee and began to whet it.

Sceeeeeeeee.

The sound brought its own small comfort to Witcher despite its unpleasantness just because of how mundane it was.

_“A monster. Are you?”_

_“How am I to know? When I cut my finger, I bleed. That’s human, right? When I overeat, my stomach aches. When I’m happy, I laugh. When I’m upset, I swear. And when I hate someone for stealing my whole life from me, I kill him.”_

Sceeeeeeeee.

_“If we cross swords…”_

_“I won’t be able to stop. They created me just as they created you. We’re not so different.”_

Sceeeeeeeee.

_“The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny.”_

Geralt’s rhythm faltered as the whetstone slipped his hand and his finger bled from a cut under the sharp blade.

What girl could possibly be with him? It was not a prophecy. It was just the words of a dying girl the world had labelled a monster and then forced her to become the same.

He was a Witcher. He did not have time in his life for princesses or magic or music.

The life of a Witcher was one of darkness, of monsters, of chaos and death and fighting to survive. It was a life of rejection from the very people you were charged to protect, of getting cursed at, threatened.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the story, and I hope you liked the story. If you did, please let me know in the comments or through kudos!  
> If you want to chat, find me at fangirlshrewt97.tumblr.com


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